Back where we started
by Ayzilia
Summary: Just a short tie-in to the "My kind is not your kind" AU. As Gotham descends into chaos, Jason finds an odd little boy with a camera. In other news, Clark and Lois discuss the future.


Title: Back where we started (1/2)

Author: ayzilia

Fandom: DCU

Rating: R, for cursing and violence

Word Count: 2,923

Summary: Just a short tie-in to the My kind is not your kind AU. As Gotham descends into chaos, Jason finds an odd little boy with a camera. In other news, Clark and Lois discuss the future.

Disclaimer: Not mine. All belongs to DC Comics.

A/N: I'm back! There's a whole laundry list of explanations, but suffice it to say I haven't forgotten about this! And I won't abandon this story. Thanks to everyone who's been reading!

* * *

Maybe the particular tilt of the girl's head. Or the angle of the navy baseball cap tugged on roughly over tangled locks of sandy colored hair. Or the staccato rhythm of her hurried steps. Or the specific line and set of her shoulders. Jason couldn't really give a fuck.

Whatever it was about this girl, his instincts kept clamoring out alarms: the hairs on his arms stood, a chill ran down his spine, his stomach lurched, the whole fucking deal.

Bruce probably could have pinpointed exactly what in her body language revealed that she might crack, messily and dangerously (probably expected Jason to be able to as well at this point), but all Jason cared about wasn't howhe knew this girl was sliding over a precipice, but where and when she would. And how to prevent her from taking others with her.

So he followed her.

She moved quickly, too rushed. When passing other pedestrians, she simply bowed her head and plowed forward, hands clutching around the straps of her small backpack.

Jason's instincts leaned still harder on his mental alarm button.

Hurdle over an air duct, a few strides of the swift efficient lope Bruce'd taught him, a simple flip he'd learned from Dick to clear the gap between buildings and he was able to easily track the girl on the sidewalk from the rooftops across the street.

He couldn't help it; Jason's body thrilled, flushed with pride in his capabilities and the clear addicting rush of adrenaline. He smirked. He'd be kicking some ass soon enough.

Six blocks down the girl came to an abrupt halt.

Up above, Jason skidded to a stop on rain-slicked shingles, cursing the abysmal traction of the pixie boots he really needed to nix for something more sturdy. More intimidating; less circus. His golden cape, caught up in both his momentum and the slight breeze of the city swept past him and snapped into the heavy humid air as he turned to face the street below. He scowled, trying not to feel ridiculous leaning so severely to compensate for the roof's sharp slant, and watched.

The girl stared at the over-sized carved wooden doors of St. Jude's, her body held statue still save for the index finger of her right hand, which tapped against the strap of that damn backpack at a pace to rival a hummingbird.

Jason's hands clenched into fists; his scowl devolved into a simple primal bearing of teeth. No. No, not the church during an evening service. Not the church during an evening service at a time when uncertainty was rampant and more people than usual turned up for answers.

The girl ducked her head and scrambled up the steps to tug one heavy door open just enough to slip inside.

"Fuck," Jason muttered, but the wind picked up in intensity and stole the curse away before Jason could take the last step over the roof's edge.

* * *

He slipped in through the bell-tower. How fucking classic was that. Jason shook his head in disgust and shot a line so he could repel down the hollow core of the tower rather than waste his time with the stairs. Hundreds of steps meant hundreds of chances to misstep and fuck up, but attach his line to his golden utility belt like so, jump off, and he was moving. Falling. Swiftly. Cleanly. Silently.

As soon as his damned pixie boots touched the hardwood floor at the base of the tower, Jason released the cable from his belt, and paused. One hand lingering on the line still dangling, still attached up in the rafters of the belfry. He could leave it as an escape route, but if he had to exit another way, or if some dumbfuck came along while he worked to resolve whatever that girl pulled down in the main sanctuary…

Scowling at the time it cost, but decided in the task's necessity, Jason recalled the line and tucked his grapnel gun back into his belt with perfunctory efficiency, already letting his feet carry him towards the door set in the western wall. His hands busy, he wasted no time in kicking open the door (it's pragmatic, B, not wanton destruction of property) and—the distinct sound of gunshots, three of them, exploded the church's serenity. The screams of those filling the pews downstairs cut down Jason's spine like a chilled knife, knotting shoulders and abs with fresh tight tension. He broke into a sprint, taking steps two or three at a time, half-running and half-falling down the flight of polished stone stairs to his right. He turned the final corner into the entryway, skidded into the gleaming stone basin of holy water, straightened, and kept moving forward.

He could see her now, cap off, bad case of hat hair, small pistol raised above her head, facing the alter and yelling at the priest to get the fuck on the floor. Jason dove for cover behind the very last row of pews in the split instant before she whipped around, wide frightened manic green eyes flicking over the quivering church-goers cowering in the pews or praying behind gothic stone columns. She backed up until she was standing on the dais, before all those assembled, above the kneeling priest, her gun pointed out.

"No! Don't panic!" She cried, "I'm here to save us all. It's the end of the world a-and I'm here to make sure we all get where we're going! I'm here as Salvation."

A petite brunette woman in the third row tucked a child against her chest and sobbed.

"None of us should have to suffer what this world has become," the gunman proclaimed, almost sedately, her eyes sad.

Jason turned to glance down at his utility belt, body turned to the front door again, back against the old stained grain of the wooden pew, quickly integrating her position and the priest's and how many bullets she had left, considering the possibility of more firepower. She had to have more right? If she wanted to "save" the forty-odd people in here?

He took a deep breath, gathering himself, and looked up. His brow furrowed; there was a tiny slip of a kid crouched by the basin in the entryway. Just two huge blue eyes, a micro-frown, and an intense fixated gaze on Jason. Huh, Jason could have sworn the way had been empty when he tore through it, how did… But then he heard the soft sounds of the crazy blonde chick sliding her backpack off her shoulders and refocused on the problem at hand.

Indeed, when he popped up to his feet, batarang flying off his fingertips, "Salvation" had ducked over her backpack, which had transitioned from her shoulders to the floor. Jason caught a glimpse of the contents—different colored wires and a few blinking lights—before his batarang sliced over her bowed shoulder, neatly cutting off an unhealthy lock of hair before hitting the stone wall at the back of the church with a soft metallic clang. Jumpy as her sort tended to be, the girl twitched upright, her head snapping first toward the sound and then back to glare in Jason's direction. She began to raise her gun, her movement cold-molasses-slow to Jason's adrenaline fueled mind, but too late. Jason had sprung forward, chasing after his batarang, as soon as the small weapon had begun cutting a path through the air separating him from this corner of Gotham's most recent threat. Her eyes had time widen, her mouth time to fall open, before her finger pulled the trigger and simultaneously Jason's foot connected with her hand, knocking the trajectory of the expelled bullet astray.

With one hand he grabbed her wrist, digging painfully into the pressure points that forced her to release the gun to the greedy grasp of gravity, forced her to her knees before him, forced her to cry out.

Jason snarled at the pathetic sound.

Then his bright green right gauntlet took on a new look in red as he drove his fist into her jaw; the momentum slammed the girl into the floor. Jason casually stepped on her hand as she made to reach for the gun. She screamed as the bones crunched beneath unforgiving weight.

"No!" she begged to the church's rafters, "No don't stop me Robin! I must save them! I'll be saving them! Please! Let me save them! Let me save you! I-I"ll do it! I swear to God I will! I'll save you all! _Please_!"

Jason dug his heel into the hand he had trapped. Waited for the reactionary scream to taper off, for her free hand to cease in the pitiable attempts to claw off the pixie boot tormenting her, before he asked, his anger laced into each bitten off word, "Is that a bomb?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the backpack.

With a ragged sob, the girl nodded.

"Right," Jason snapped. He released her hand, only to swoop down and twist a gauntlet into her hair, smearing her own dark blood into the gold. "What's the trigger mechanism?"

The girl sobbed again, her uninjured hand coming up to wrap around the wrist of the hand Jason had in her hair, but did not volunteer any more information. So Jason shook her, jostling her mangled extremity against the ground. She screamed, "It's n-not—ah—it's not armed yet!"

Jason nodded. Provided her nerves and pain inhibited her ability to lie, that was the best case scenario. He didn't have to deal with "red wire or blue wire" nonsense; he could simply isolate the bomb somewhere and detonate it in a controlled environment.

With a sigh he rammed her head into the floor, effectively, if brutally, knocking her out cold. Then he turned his focus to the faded blue backpack unzipped before him. A twitch of his wrist opened the bag up, revealing the simple homemade device to his perusal. A timer—set at thirty seconds—but holding eerily steady, battery power source, detonator, and a neat little brick of some home-cooked explosives. He sat on his hunches and regarded the device carefully, tracing the paths of different wires, trying to verify the validity of what the girl had divulged.

A wallet tucked up in one of the bag's many pockets caught his eye. With just his index finger and thumb he lifted it out and flicked it open. A Hudson University student ID smiled up at him: Kelly Whitmore. A New Jersey driver's license revealed an age: twenty years old. And a folded up paper tucked into the fold where most people would keep dollar bills turned out to detail her class information for last semester. A transcript. Jason's eyes narrowed in thought as he skimmed. An engineering student, looked like. A good one, judging by her grades. Intelligence gone sideways under stress. So fucking stereotypical.

Jason stilled. Frowned. Tilted his head and exhaled, scrutinizing his surroundings with his senses and his instincts and everything Bruce kept attempting to pound into his thick head. Something…

Through the quick action and the interrogation and now his "detective-ing", Jason kept some small periphery portion of his focus on the by-standers. As soon as Robin had taken over the situation the priest had begun herding his flock out of the way, out into the street, where they likely cried, stared into the middle distance, and called GCPD.

So now, with the would-be bomber, Kelly, unconscious, Jason really shouldn't feel the prickle up his spine that came with being observed. Someone hadn't cleared out yet. Possible threat? Did Kelly have a partner? Jason gritted his teeth in frustration; his shoulders knotted with the increased tension despite his mental commands to stay loose.

There. A click. Definitely a threat.

Jason threw himself to the side, his amour absorbing the impact as his tucked shoulder connected with the solid inlaid stone floor. In one fluid movement (only because occasionally Dick could be a, well… dick when training him) Jason rolled to his feet, facing the pews once more and letting another batarang fly before his mind even began to process the sight that greeted him.

That stupid creepy slip of a kid. Standing in the middle aisle between the pews. With a pricey looking camera raised to his face. Candle light flickering off the lens.

Fuck.

The kid had reflexes though. Flinched out of the way.

Almost.

The batarang imbedded itself into the kid's camera, instead of the kid himself.

Jason felt a razor-sharp ice pick of regret drive all the air from his lungs, making his jaw go momentarily slack, making him hesitate. He so did not want to deal with a crying traumatized child. Maybe he should just zip-strip the girl's hands together, grab the bomb, and run.

Then the kid tore his (huge, blue) eyes from his wrecked camera and fixed them unwaveringly on Jason. Inexplicably, the kid didn't look frightened, or on the brink of tears, or even surprised. He looked tired maybe, but mostly he just appeared… mildly confused, perhaps a bit put out, like losing his camera was such an inconvenience.

And the ice pick passed through, leaving a clean exit wound.

Annoyance spiked through Jay's bones in regret's hollow wake, tightening his lips into an ugly scowl, curling his fingers into the beginnings of fists. Stupid kid. If he didn't want his things broken he should keep them the hell out of fucking war zones.

He stalked swiftly forward, snatched hold of the kid's twig slim bicep, and gave him a slight shake. The kid inhaled loudly through his nose as he felt the bite of Jason's fingers, but otherwise just blinked up at him. Jason glared harder in return.

The kid no longer looked so put out, but he didn't look properly intimidated either. Jason lightly grabbed the kid's chin to tilt his head further back and study his expression closely. The kid looked… as close to blank calm as anyone could ever hope to with big gripping eyes like that. Jason thought he caught a glimpse of something like desperation flit across the kid's face, but it was there and gone in a millisecond.

Jason shoved the kid back away from him, watching impassively at the few stumbled steps. But the kid didn't fall and he didn't run. Just as somehow, Jason's instincts had told him the kid wouldn't.

"What's your name, kid?" Jason asked with a sharp jut of his chin.

"T-Tim," The kid—Tim—breathed softly, then stronger, "Timothy Jackson Drake."

* * *

Lois couldn't help the smug warmth she felt fill her chest every time she heard the sharp click of her power pumps, the rhythm of a confident unabashed walk. The sound accompanied her down the tiled hallway of Clark's quiet apartment complex. It struck her as odd, the difference between cities. With the arrival of the Kryptonian refugees, some cities—like Metropolis—had grown silent as the grave. People cloistering themselves inside around computers and TV's, waiting for news of the shape of their future. Others—most notably Gotham—had exploded into chaos and riots, as if the fucking Apocalypse had arrived on the wings of Kryptonian spaceships.

She slipped her key into the lock, twisted, and let herself into Clark's place; she didn't bother with knocking. It wasn't as if Clark hadn't heard her approaching from a mile off.

The door opened directly into the living room, where Clark stood before of his smallish flatscreen, one hand on his slim hips, the other cradling the remote as he turned up to volume. Entirely for her benefit.

She dumped her bag, keys, purse, hat all in a pile on the couch and scowled when she recognized the arguing voices, when she stole a look around Clark's broad shoulders and took in the news network logo, the headlines.

"Why are you watching that garbage?" she demanded. She moved forward to stand beside her boyfriend and claimed the hand resting at his hip, threading her fingers pointedly through his.

Clark always stood next to her so warm, so solid, so strong, and most days so burdened.

She could hear the weight when he quietly predicted, "It's going to get worse Lois."

He didn't even look away from the screen. Studying the angry words, the discussion from both sides. A sound bite of Bruce Wayne's speech from yesterday's press conference—and really when did Bruce Wayne start deserving more coverage than the _President _on a political issue like this, it was ridiculous—usurped the screen and the air. Clark just kept watching; his only concession to any hurt or betrayal he felt a small tilt of his lips downwards.

Lois sighed. Figures he'd be set to do something stupid and self-sacrificing. Idiot. But whatever shitstorm hit as a result of recent events, she knew she wanted to stay here, at his side. He needed to know as well.

She took a breath, "Clark, whatev—"

"Lois."

She frowned at him and he turned to frown back.

"I'll be here for you," she finished.

And he smiled—the bright sunny country boy smile—before dropping the remote to cup her neck—gently, always gently—and brushing aside her bangs with their joined hands. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She punched him in the arm. Not as gently.

"Come on," she said briskly, moving to set up her laptop on the coffee table, "Come take a look at the editorial I sent off to Perry before heading over here."


End file.
